“Ready, Jerry?”
“Sure.”
He fastened his safety belt and slipped on his gloves. Then the mechanic asked, “Off?”
“Off.”
Jerry put the magneto switch in the off position. The mechanic stepped forward and pulled the propeller through a few turns, then stepped back.
“Contact!”
“Contact.”
Jerry pumped the primer four times, then pressed the inertia starter switch and listened as a low whine came from the engine and then rose in pitch. When it reached its highest note and held, he pulled the mesh lever. The gears squealed shrilly, then the propeller turned very slowly. Jerry switched the magneto to “both.” Smoke came pouring out of the exhaust ports. The engine fired, then coughed, and settled to an even, flat roar as he advanced the throttle.
Methodically he went through the process of getting the plane ready to leave the ground—checking the oil pressure, adjusting the small light over the instrument panel. Then when the tachometer wound to 1950 revolutions per minute, the ship shook with a kind of taut fury.
“Chocks out!”
The mechanic ducked beneath the wing and pulled out the wooden blocks, and Jerry gave the engine a burst of power. The wheels rolled over the cinders, and he checked the time—2:30 A.M.
Winter chilled the land with an iron breath. Now as Jerry flew through the thick layers of stratus clouds that covered huge areas, he felt the weight of them. He could fly on top if he had the will, skimming along the swells of a gentle aerial ocean with the sunshine on his shoulders. Or he could fly between layers with sometimes a portion of the earth visible through a small hole in the clouds. But the clouds were ever changing, so that finding such a hole became a critical necessity. And the treacherous winds could slyly pull a plane off course, which meant that fuel would become more precious than gold.
When he reached a thousand feet, he moved the controls, swinging the Pitcairn into a dizzy sweeping movement. Then he grinned as he thought of how different pilots flew their planes. Uncle Gavin flew his ship carefully, keeping all the rules, flying with perfect mechanical precision.
Jerry loved the fancy moves, the fortissimos of flying, and was quickly bored with routine. On the long, monotonous flights between cities, he would sometimes perform an inside loop, or even put the plane into a spin just for the joy of it. It was an overflow of the exuberant spirit that was his, and he knew that he was being foolish.
But there was no stunting this day, for the winter sky was dark and brooding. Jerry watched it as he would watch a wild beast, knowing that it could reach out and slap him down to earth with a cruel stroke.
As the hours passed, he grew numb, and his reactions, he knew, were slowed. The visibility was poor, less than a mile, but there was a wild beauty in the snow streaking through the wings in spitting, horizontal streams. He kept careful watch on the dark and brooding bank of mountains on his left, and his compass remained gently rocking in the soft glow of its filmy light to guide him.
Finally he reached Albany, eased his ship over toward the east bank of the Hudson, and worked the rudder slightly left and right. Despite the snow that stung his eyelids, he pushed his goggles up. He slowed the plane to a minimum speed and glided down into the snow.
He got out of the plane stiffly, and the mechanic refueled the ship. Jerry went inside to warm himself, and as he downed the boiling black coffee that burned his throat, he wondered what lay ahead. The mechanic, an older man named Kellerman, came inside, shaking his head. “You want to go on through this?”
“Sure.”
Kellerman looked gloomy, giving Jerry a hard look. “It’s getting worse, the radio says. Better lay over till it clears up.”
Jerry thought with longing of lying down on a cot with warm blankets—then decided against it. “I’ll make it all right.”
“Should have stayed over!”
Jerry’s lips were so numb he could hardly move them to speak, and he wiped at his goggles futilely. The snow whirled around him so thickly he could not see the nose of the Pitcairn. The wind screamed at him fiercely, and the cold closed around him like an iron fist.
He cut the throttle and pushed the nose down, applying the left rudder. The Pitcairn’s engine coughed and sputtered, and Jerry cleared it with a quick burst of the throttle—and then a hill suddenly reared itself in front of him!
Jerry hauled back on the stick, kicked at the controls, and held his breath. Shouldn’t be a hill around here! his mind cried out. He almost felt the mass of the earth as the plane was thrown into a wild turn—but then he saw the hill falling away until the snow closed it to his vision.
Fear came then, freezing his mind as the wind froze his body. He knew he was hopelessly lost, and finding his way was impossible. Instruments were useless, except to show him how high he was. But his fuel was low, and he knew he’d have to find a hole in the clouds, a break in the storm, or go down blindly.
He tried to think, but even as his mind raced wildly, he felt the plane vibrate. Looking out to the flying wires that stretched between the wings, he saw that the leading edges of the wings were encrusted with a thin white line of ice.
I’ll have to jump, he thought numbly. But Jerry hated to lose a plane. When a plane crashed it was like losing a friend, the twisted broken longerons and spars like broken bones. It was a matter of pride, and pride ran strongly in Jerry Stuart. He had vowed that he’d make good on this job, and now he determined to ride the plane down.
He kept the ship on an even keel, fighting the winds, hoping to find a clearing in the storm. The Pitcairn was tossed like a toy, but he took satisfaction in holding it as steady as possible.
As he flew on, he had no illusions about his chances. He’d heard of too many good pilots who’d gone to their deaths, mangled so badly that the funerals had been held with closed caskets. He’d always counted on his considerable flying skills to keep him from dying, and now these were almost useless. No pilot, he knew, could do more than he was doing—and he knew he was a dead man if he didn’t find a break in the clouds and a field flat enough to land on.
Death had been an abstraction to him—something you read about or that happened to someone else. Always it had been a theory, not a living fact.
Now as he tore along through the madness of the storm, he looked at his hands encased in heavy gloves and thought, If I die, my fingernails and my hair will keep on growing for a few days—but I’ll be dead. He’d heard this and had only half believed it, but now it seemed to be very important.
What will it be like . . . to be dead?
Instantly he thought of the many sermons he’d heard while growing up—some of them on the subject of hell. One evangelist had painted a vivid picture: Imagine a blast furnace glowing white with heat. Imagine putting only your hand into that terrible searing heat for just one minute—and then think of the incredible pain of having your entire body in raging flames—forever! No hope of relief—pain forever!
Jerry had not been affected by the sermon, not nearly so much as he’d been frightened by a calm sermon by the pastor of the church a year later. As the Pitcairn bucked the winds, he could hear the words almost as clearly as if they were spoken—
Hell is separation from all that’s good—which is to say, separation from God. God cannot bear evil, and he will not have heaven contaminated with it. Hell is the penitentiary where all who will not come to Jesus Christ will be confined. If they were permitted to enter heaven, the evil in them would spread like leaven. If your sins are not forgiven in this life, you will endure them forever—cut off from saved parents, from those who know the Lord. This is worse, I think, than all the physical pain that hell might contain. It was to bring you to himself that God sent his Son to die. He longs for each of you to be with him. But it is only through the cross of Jesus that you can come. There is no other way!
Jerry seemed to see the face of his mother. She’d bent over his bed once when he was having a nightmare and whispered, “Jes
us casts out fear, Jerry. Perfect love casts out fear—”
Now as fear ran along the nerves of the pilot, he knew that his whole life was a waste. If I die, there’ll be nothing left of me on earth!
And then he thought of the face of Bonnie Hart—of her last words to him:
I’ll pray for you, Jerry!
A sudden gust of gritty snow blinded him, and panic came. But as he held desperately to the controls, he came as close to having a vision as ever before in his life.
Her face was innocent and her dark eyes were warm. Like a cascade her straight black hair flowed down her back, and there was a vulnerability in her soft youthful lips.
I’ll pray for you, Jerry!
As he felt the plane cough and sputter, he knew the last of his fuel was gone—and he cried out, “Oh, God—don’t let me die!”
He raked the back of his gloves across his face, then blinked fiercely. The driving snow rushed toward him—but as the Pitcairn dropped heavily, his heart leaped as he caught a glimpse of light.
He broke through the clouds, and there in front of him lay a large field of some kind, filled with stubble piercing the snow. He used the last of the power to pull the nose of the plane up, and then the wheels struck, bounced, and then came down hard. He fought for control, and finally the plane came to a shuddering halt.
Jerry Stuart sat in the cockpit, trembling and still not able to believe that he was on solid ground. Slowly he crawled out of the airplane, falling to the snow on numbed feet. He pulled himself upright, then looked up into the leaden sky filled with large flakes.
“Thank you, God!” he whispered. Then he thought again of the vision he’d had of Bonnie Hart, and wonder came to him.
He stood quietly for a time, thinking hard, then slapped the side of the plane and turned to walk through the deep snow.
JERRY GETS A WARNING
Christie had been delighted when Mario showed some interest in the work of the Army. The moment they’d had in the park had never left her, and she wondered if he thought about it. Somehow that time had fixed itself in her so firmly that she wondered if she was falling in love with him.
Mario had been more affected by Christie’s kiss than he wanted to admit. He found himself thinking of her during business hours and making excuses to go by and see her. He had a streak of humor, and somehow the incongruity of a wealthy lawyer spending time with “a bunch of fanatics,” as Nick called the members of the Salvation Army, amused him.
One evening after a hard day in court, he found himself pulling up in his Packard in front of the large building that housed the Army, and when he killed the engine, he sat in the big car thinking, What am I doing here? I must be losing my mind! He knew that Nick and Eddy were concerned about him, but he shook off that problem. He was worried about himself and he almost drove off without getting out. But he had no plans, and his apartment seemed suddenly very lonely.
“Just find out if there’s anything I can do,” he muttered. When he got inside the building, he saw Jerry Stuart at once. The young pilot had been short with him on the few occasions they had met, and now as Mario stopped to say, “Hello, Jerry,” he saw a look of dislike come to the pilot’s eyes.
“Hello.”
“I dropped by to see your aunts,” Mario said, ignoring the curtness of Jerry’s greeting. “Haven’t seen you lately. Been flying lots of hours?”
“Yes, I have.” Jerry nodded toward the inner door, saying, “Lenora’s in her office.”
The hint was plain, but Mario said easily, “I’ll stop and say hello to her. Good to see you again.”
Jerry watched as the trim young lawyer moved away, then chewed his lower lip nervously. He knew he had to talk to Christie now. Abruptly Jerry whirled and went to the storage room where he found Christie sorting clothing. “Gotta talk to you, Aunt Christie,” he said at once.
Christie looked up, startled, then put down a shirt to say, “All right. Do you want to go outside?”
“Okay.” Jerry followed her through a side door and found himself standing inside a loading dock. It was not occupied, and he said, “Aunt Christie, I’ve got to talk to you—about Mario.”
Christie nodded. “All right, Jerry. What about Mario?”
“Well, I think you’re seeing too much of him.”
“Do you? Why is that?”
Jerry was awkward and embarrassed. He pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his black hair. “I wish you’d listen to Lenora. She’s talked to you about him, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, she has.”
“Well, can’t you see how—how wrong it is?”
Christie had been expecting Jerry to come to her with this. She knew that he felt responsible for the friendship between her and Mario, and she tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault. “We’re just good friends, Jerry. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Jerry felt that there was something wrong, but he felt he wasn’t the one to say so. Still, he had been responsible for bringing Mario into his aunt’s life, so he pressed on despite his awkwardness. “Look, I don’t think there’s anything going on between you two—I know you better than that. But, Aunt Christie, you’ve been brought up in a world that’s as different from his as Chicago is from Africa! He’s a rich, good-looking guy, and I guess almost any girl would be flattered to have him hanging around. But what’s going to come of it? He’ll never marry you.”
“I . . . never thought of that.”
“Why, you must have, Aunt Christie!” Jerry protested. “It’d be the thing any woman would think of. But you don’t know how tight these Italian families are! I mean, they’re like little kingdoms—and nobody outside the kingdom is going to get inside!”
“We don’t talk about that, Jerry.”
A lassie came bustling out, stopped abruptly, then said, “Excuse me—did Major Hastings come out here?”
“No, I haven’t seen him, Irene.” Christie gave Jerry an odd look as the woman turned and left. “Don’t worry about me, Jerry! I . . . I’ll be all right.”
But Jerry was unhappy with her. He felt more than a little like a blundering young fool but knew he had to be plainer. “Look, if he’s not going to marry you, there’s only one other thing that could be on his mind, Aunt Christie!”
At once Christie caught his meaning. Her face reddened, and she lifted her head to look into her nephew’s eyes. “He’s never tried to—to do anything that wasn’t right!” A streak of anger ran through her, and she said sharply, “Jerry, has it ever occurred to you that I’m responsible for Mario, for his soul, I mean?”
Jerry stared at her blankly. “No, I never thought of that.”
“He doesn’t know God—and I’m praying that he’ll be saved. Now I wish you’d not come to me again with this!”
Jerry felt crushed. “All right, Aunt Christie. I just . . . well, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, that’s all.”
“That’s sweet of you, Jerry,” Christie said, softening and patting his arm. “And I’m praying for you, too. You need God as much as Mario does.”
Jerry flushed, for since his perilous landing he’d spent many hours thinking of God. But he said only, “I guess I do—but watch yourself with him, Aunt Christie.”
Mario found her and asked at once, “How about I take you to meet my mother, Christie? Give you a real Italian dinner!”
“Why, I’d like very much to meet her.”
Christie went to change, and a knock at her door caused her to turn and open it. Major Hastings said, “Christie, are you going out with Mr. Castellano?”
“Why, yes I am. He wants me to meet his mother.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Major Hastings had nothing but praise for Christie, but now his thin face was tense with apprehension. “As your superior I feel I must give you at least a warning about your friendship with him . . .”
Christie listened as the major spoke of his doubts. When he finished, she said, “I’m grateful for your concern, and of course I wa
nt to do what’s right. He asked me to meet his mother, and I’ve agreed.” She liked the man very much and said quietly, “Perhaps we can talk about this later?”
“Yes, I think we might.” Hastings grew thoughtful and said slowly, “We in the Army reach out to the poor and helpless. Not often do we help the rich and powerful. Sometimes I think we should do more of that—but we’ll speak of it later.”
After Christie got into Mario’s car and the two drove away, Jerry said, “Aunt Lenora, I’ve got to do something.” He’d been standing at her window looking down on the street, and now his face was set. “It’s not right, her seeing him.”
“What can you do, Jerry?”
“For one thing I can put it to Mario that he needs to stop seeing her.”
Lenora was having difficulty over Christie’s behavior, and a troubled look came to her face. “I don’t know, Jerry. Sometimes doing a thing like that just makes things worse. Maybe if we just wait—”
“That’s no good! The longer he keeps seeing her the more likely she is to fall for the guy. No, I’m going to have it out with him!”
Jerry decided to see Nick before confronting Mario. It’d be better if he did it, was his thought. Mario’s not likely to listen to me, but he might pay attention to his brother.
He found Bones propped up in a chair outside Nick’s office. “Nick in?” he asked.
“No, he ain’t. He’s on a business trip. Eddy’s here, though.”
Jerry hesitated, then said, “Guess I’ll talk to him.”
“He’s got company—might not have time for you.”
“I’ll wait.”
Jerry sat down and read an old copy of the Police Gazette. Finally the door opened, and Eddy came out to say, “Bones, go get us some steaks.” Then he saw Jerry and said with surprise, “Hey, Kid, how are you?”
“All right, Eddy. Need to see you for a few minutes.”
“Sure—come on in.”
Jerry walked into the office and stopped dead still when he saw Hymie Holtzman sitting in a chair, and directly across from him the slight figure of Walter Stevens. Something about the pale blue eyes of Stevens chilled him, and he merely nodded when Eddy said, “You remember Jerry, Walt.”
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